


Resurfacing

by tiniestdormouse



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Incest, M/M, One-Shot, Seduction FAIL, Sibling Incest, Smut, Stand Alone, alternate ending to Retrace 46, blatant misogyny, blowjob, confused sexual desires, handjob, moral ineptitude, sexual interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestdormouse/pseuds/tiniestdormouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Retrace 46. When Gilbert checks on Vincent upon the Head Hunter’s return, Vincent denies recalling anything from their past. So Gil decides to help his brother remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurfacing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ragingbird), [eck](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eck).



> Inspired by my musing from Retrace 46: http://tiniestdormouse.tumblr.com/post/15607196252/in-reference-to-pandora-hearts-retrace-46
> 
> Also: Gil’s FUCKING BEDROOM EYES
> 
> A late birthday gift for Sarah (ragingbird). I initially started this fic over the summer after hanging out with her and Eck, so this is for Eck too XD
> 
> Disclaimer: Jun Mochizuki and Square Enix owns it all. I just like the pr0n.

* * *

_Whatever I decide....Oz will be okay knowing...._

Gilbert repeated that thought over and over in his head, justifying what he was about to do. Already, the sweat of his palms dampened his gloves, and nervous tremors ran down his limbs. He reached out to lean against the wall and bowed his head, exhaling loudly.

“This is for Oz,” he whispered to himself, the hand against the wall balling into a fist.

He hadn't seen the young man yet today, but knew exactly what Oz was doing at this moment. Oz was currently resting in one of the guest suites at the organization. No, “resting” was a euphemism for the reality: the youth had sunk into depression after witnessing the bloody scene at Rytas's manor. The old magician, his poor servant girl, and Gruner and his men all slaughtered, the seal they were protecting shattered by the Head Hunter. Since then, Oz had refused almost all of his meals, wouldn't get out of bed to talk to anyone, not even that dumb rabbit. Gilbert knocked daily on the boy's door and had slipped in while Oz slept to check on him throughout the week. Whenever the blond was awake, Oz barely got two sentences out at a time. “Gil shouldn't worry. I'm only... a bit tired from everything.”

A wan smile appeared, a weak attempt at his typical false gaiety that Oz pulled out to mask the pain and guilt (oh, these emotions were Gilbert's bedfellows over the years as well; he was all too familiar with the soul-ache accompanying death, especially when that death was released by his own hands...)

Gilbert wished there was some way he could help comfort his master. The further they traveled down his dark investigation into the past 100 years before, the more pain Oz will go through and the more people will be be hurt (and those dark memories – no, Gil didn't want to remember, _but_...). Compounded with this mystery, another shadow from the past returned to haunt them: the Head Hunter...

No, Gil couldn't get that _monster_ entangled in Oz's life too... but obviously, this murderer had an investment in discovering what happened during the Fall of Sablier. Gilbert banged his fist against the wall and grimaced.

Damn the Head Hunter. He wouldn't let her come after anyone else. Ever. Again.

The only way for him to solve any of these dangerous mysteries was to find more information about himself. As if summoning demons, the hollow screams emerged from the void of his brain.

… _.Gilbert.... run...._

His footsteps echoed in the marble hallway as he turned toward the rear wing of the building, one that wasn't frequented much by the other Pandora officers. Only one or two secluded office suites were located here.

He knocked upon the door of one hesitantly and cleared his throat. No answer. Gilbert tapped his foot, his mind wandering. Was Oz awake today? The time was almost noon. Perhaps his time would be better spent cajoling the boy out of bed and getting him dressed (or at least attempt to get him dressed.)

No, Gilbert couldn't run away. Not this time.

Still no answer. Gilbert sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and turned the door handle. A figure reclined on the chaise-lounge in the center of the room, unmoving. How unusual. Gilbert usually received the opposite reaction whenever the two of them were alone.

Gilbert shut the door behind him, and at the sound, the other man slowly rose, shaking his blond locks. “What's wrong, Vince?”

“Brother,” Vincent muttered, eyes still blurry from sleep, “that girl is no good...”

* * *

 

Vincent couldn’t get that wretched Vessalius girl out of his head. He tried to pin-point exactly how she had snaked her way into his thoughts. Most women, no matter how garishly they made themselves up or how obscenely they fawned over him, Vincent had no problem pushing aside. Even the old hens he took to bed for favors barely distracted him as he pleasured them. Instead, he replaced them in his mind with thoughts of Gilbert: hair thrown back on the pillows, arching his back, and those elegant hands grabbing onto Vincent's locks as he pushed his cock inside Vincent's mouth. Demanding, aggressive, needy-- emitting deep growls instead of those annoying shrieks Vincent heard as he made those pathetic women climax. Yes, beautiful Gilbert was who he'd rather focus his attentions on...

Other visions invaded his imaginings: clear green eyes and heavy-feathered lashes (eyes like Jack's, and a gaze that didn't pity) and that abashed, expression on her kitten face as she clutched that preposterous witch hat in her hands. And how she rambled on and on about those ridiculous books and crystals and potions and amulets for hours and hours in that dungeon.

Ada made all the bad memories stir up, things Vince didn’t like to think about. Of cages and mocking faces and jeering at the freak show. Of those rich bastards who treated them like toys. Of that red witch who lied to him and made him destroy Sablier when he only wanted to save Gil....

Intrusively, Ada's chirpy voice cut into his mind again as the memory from that afternoon resurfaced.

“ _Oh, this is called a garrotte! It's an old torture device going back 300 years!”_  
  
 _Vincent had turned red when seeing that rusted chair with the ring of metal on its back, made to snap around the victim's neck._

“ _I got this for a steal at an estate sale – who knew that those nobles kept such things!”_

_(Oh, Vince had plenty of ideas about what noble scum kept around for entertainment...)_

“ _Look at the seat, those stains! Those are probably left from the last person who sat down—isn't that dreadful-? But I couldn't resist owning this; you can feel the living history of those poor people's final hours, accused of being evil!”_

“ _How.... terrible,” Vincent managed to reply once he realized the wench wanted a response._

“ _I know, right? Aren't you glad you're here of your own will?” Playfully, she had pushed him down in the chair. Stumbling for balance in a rare nervous start, Vincent grabbed the armrests. The force of his jolt snapped the open cuffs over his wrists. Ada gave a pert little cry and dropped her hat._

“ _Oh, Mr. Vincent, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Here, let me get you out.”_

_Whiffs of her perfume rose from her bosom as she leaned over his lap to struggle against the rusted bonds. Vincent felt all the blood drain from his face, biting down feelings of fear and disgust at her nearness. And disgust at himself, for the sudden twitch between his legs as she removed him from the chair._

Wretched bitch, trying to wile him!

Vincent roused himself from his thoughts as he heard the door to the Pandora suite swing open.

“What's wrong, Vince?”

Vincent shuffled his position, his grouchiness over how this impossible girl made him feel causing him to snap at his dear older sibling.

“Brother, that girl is no good...”

* * *

Gilbert brushed Vincent's behavior aside, feeling awkward about pursuing it further. How can he even start? A girl? Are you seeing someone your age then? No more rumors about aging duchesses and married countesses? 

The atmosphere in the room was tense. Not out of malice or disdain – Gilbert handled that daily from others – but unspoken accusation. He glanced off to the side, tracing his hand against the divan opposite of the chaise-lounge Vincent reclined upon, trying to control his nerves as he related the reason why he asked to see Vincent alone at Pandora. Out of concern for him and the Nightray house since the Head Hunter returned.

“I guess there's no need for me to tell you but you should be careful too,” he said, grasping the wood beneath his fingers to stop them from trembling.

As soon as the words left his mouth, a pitiless voice entered Gilbert's head. _You should have checked sooner. Immediately upon your return to Pandora. Instead, you waited for a week by Oz's door and hadn't even thought to ask about Vincent until this morning. What does that say?_

A real caring brother wouldn't leave his family as lower priority. The guilt pained him. Did Vincent realize this too? His younger sibling always acted so grateful at any attention Gil offered, which only compounded Gilbert's feeling of selfishness.

“But you'd better worry about yourself, big brother.” Vincent's beaming face made Gilbert feel rattled and unmoored. “I'm happy to see that you're worried about me.”

_Lies, lies, lies. I'm a liar and a bastard._

Another reason always made Gilbert nervous whenever he was alone with Vincent. He knew, inevitably, moment will come when Vincent would stand too close for comfort, or cradle his hands like a lover, or do _something_ so wildly inappropriate that Gilbert had no proper response than to flush angrily and flap away. Gilbert suspected Vincent's feelings about him for years (and was another unfortunate rumor that followed his little brother, trailing after the bedding of the noble and the aged).

Gilbert expected Vincent to rise from his seat to place a concerned hand upon Gilbert's cheek, but his brother made no such gesture. Instead, how unassuming and distant Vincent acted! Gilbert noticed his little brother must be having a rough time of it, even if he didn't mention things. There were circles beneath those magnetic bi-colored eyes, and his face appeared thinner. Was he losing weight? Maybe Gilbert should comment on how wan Vincent was becoming...

His hand lifted from the divan frame and he suddenly felt the urge to brush back that bit of hair that has fallen across Vincent's eyes. _Sit next to him, ask him how he feels,_ coached that cruel voice. _That's a subtle way of starting things, right? This is all part of your brilliant plan, remember?_

Gilbert stayed his hand, balled it into a fist, and dropped his gaze to the plush carpet at his feet. No, this was a bad idea, to ask Vincent to come here. Gilbert's plan was a terrible thing, and he was a terrible human being to approach Vincent this way!

He continued to stare at the floor, making short remarks in response to Vincent's concerns over his safety. Yes, he dismissed the bodyguards, and silently, Gilbert recalled the last time the Head Hunter targeting him after the poisoning.

The last victims had been the help, like he once was. A guard that he knew since childhood, a maid that used to care for Vanessa. Honest, simple folk. They didn't deserve to have their heads cut off simply because they had been by Gilbert's side that day. Their deaths were on his shoulders, and Gilbert realized how much of a threat he posed to everyone. Why he initially fled the Nightray manor to live on his own.

_You witnessed the carnage the Head Hunter's capable of. Even so, you waited a whole week until this meeting. Is your master so much more important? Elliot could be in danger. Or Vincent._

_Shut up!_ Gilbert snapped at his conscience. He must wrap up this conversation as quickly as possible and forget the other idea entirely. Dismiss Vincent, go check on Oz. Maybe his master will finally see him.

“If you hear any news about the Head Hunter, let me know right away.” He turned his heel to leave.

“Sure,” purred Vincent's voice behind him. “I'll send you a letter and a bouquet of roses as usual.”

Yes, the blue roses, always with that sickly sweet smell. Gilbert wasn't ignorant of flower language, either. Always fourteen roses, as if Vincent was sending a silent apology with every bouquet for even intruding upon Gilbert's time.

Gilbert faced toward the door. _No need to apologize this time, Vince. I'm the one who's acting like scum._

“Vince...You still don't remember anything, do you?”  
  
“No I don't. Have you forgotten what I told you last time? You don't remember either, right?”

“Right...” A twinge of guilt. That was the moment, and Gil missed it. For a good reason; because he had to stop these disgusting visions that have been plaguing him since that cold-hearted voice's suggestion: Vincent moaning and pleading that he'd tell Gil everything if only he kept on going...

Gilbert was glad the heated flush that basked his face wouldn't be noticed by his brother.

“If you were to remember something, please let me know.”

“Why?”

He had to leave, now. He leaned his forehead head against the frame and peered over at Vincent. “I’d like to have a good talk with you.” He grasped the handle by his side. The door began to swing shut behind him.

* * *

 

 

“Wait.”

Motion stopped. Gil turned his head so that the dim light of the room cast shadows across his face. Vincent saw a faint pink color high on his brother's cheeks.

“What…” He knew that he should let his brother walk away, that he shouldn’t be inviting him to stay. Gil suspected. Whenever these moods came over him – morose and regretful, fighting off some inner truth – it was simple to steer his brother away from further questions, because Gilbert didn't want to prod further. Over the years, Vincent knew how to rein in his brother's curiosity by playing against his own fear. This time, however, seeing him there, the silent permission begging to be granted – Vincent relented for once. “What should we talk about?”

Gilbert stood by the doorway knowing that the routine they had established of avoidance and derailment had been broken. The moment lasted briefly and when he entered the room again, his steps crossed another boundary between them. He perched on the divan opposite of the chaise lounge, hands folded in his lap. “I’ve been thinking over the situation, and…” He halted his words. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand-“

“When have I never understood you, brother?”

Outside the circle emitted by the dimly-turned gas lamps, a figure stirred. Vincent turned his head ever so slightly and caught the silhouette of the door leading to the suite's bedroom silently swinging shut.

Luckily, his brother hadn't noticed, preoccupied by minutiae tracings on his gloves. He crossed one foot on the other knee and picked at invisible specks of dirt on the white leather covering his palms. He looked so unraveled that Vincent couldn't resist ruffling some of those feathers of his.

“Is brother worried about something else?” Vincent titled his head. “Is it about those poor people the Head Hunter killed?” How easy it was to decipher the workings of his brother's mind, yet Vincent didn't want to tip his hand to reveal anything. “Does Gil wonder why the Head Hunter is interested about the seal?”

Gil's gaze jerked up to meet Vincent's. “How do you--?”

“I read the reports too, silly brother,” Vincent laughed. “You are not the only one who wants to rid the world of that monster.”

“Vince...” Surprisingly, instead of choosing to remain in his seat, Gilbert crossed the space between them and settled on the other end of the chaise-lounge. Vincent leaned in, intrigued by his brother's move. “Don't try to go after her, please.”

Vincent frowned. “I understand why you left our foster family. And now you gave up your bodyguards. I won't let my big brother use himself as bait.”

A bitter laugh. “The Head Hunter _should_ come after me. I deserve it.”

“No!” Vincent reached out and placed his hands on Gilbert's knee. “I'd kill that bitch before she'd ever lay a finger on you.”

He looked imploringly at Gilbert and expected the older man to shake off his touch. Instead, Gilbert closed the space between them. “I think there is something bigger going on,” he confessed, “than the Head Hunter being interested in the Nightrays. The household's had always been historically allied with the Baskervilles–”

“Those traitors,” Vincent cut in; his hand gripped Gilbert's thigh and still, the man did not budge. “The Nightray Dukedom have nothing to do with them.”

“Today. But a hundred years ago....”

Alarm bells rang in Vincent's head. Had his brother made any connections? “Why would the Head Hunter be interested in the past?”

“Because... Vincent, I think I remember something.”

By now, their faces were mere inches apart. “I thought Gilbert didn't want to remember,” he said lowly. His heart started beating quickly in his chest. What a mistake to instigate this conversation! While it is helpful to know that Gilbert had been much more clever than Vincent had suspected, he never thought Gil would make any association between the Head Hunter and the past. Or maybe the role that Vincent had played in all of that.... A knot of dread formed in the center of Vincent's chest.

A hand grasped something beside Vincent's ear, startling him. Gilbert flicked a bit of fluff from his fingers. “Um, sorry,” he replied hastily. “Your hair's all mussed up. It is quite” he swallowed hard, “distracting.”

That flush, which had never fully gone away since this new turn in their conversation, deepened. Slowly, Gilbert reached out and smoothed a tangle beside Vincent's cheek; it must've gotten disheveled while Vincent lain on the chaise-lounge earlier. Instead of finding the gesture soothing, Vincent tensed. Gilbert had never instigated such an intimate touch before.

“Did you ever notice,” came the nervous observation as strands of hair slipped between his fingers, “every time you fall asleep somewhere in these hallways, you get dust balls in your hair?”

He squirmed, trying to get out of this ridiculous situation – why was Gilbert fussing about his hair now out of all moments? – but Gil’s tugging was too enjoyable. Gilbert fixated on a particular lock, massaging the gold between his elegant fingers.

“Ha, there.” Gil unworked the knot and tucked the hair behind Vincent's ear. Vince repressed a shudder of pleasure. “Do you ever wonder which parent we resemble?”

A sudden switch in topics! What was going on? Maybe this was an opportunity to make Gilbert forget his previous train of thought. Or was he trying to pursue his interrogation from a different angle? What if he already knew the role they played as Baskervilles? That he was much older than anyone else in the modern era knew? The dread grew, its sticky tendrils making it more difficult for Vincent to breathe. “What a silly question,” he commented, his voice more shrill than he intended.

“We barely share a resemblance, physically. The same eye color. Maybe we have the same nose. Everything else….”

What Gil was aiming for in his scattered musings? Vincent tried connecting the dots, but they remained disparate and unreadable.

Gilbert said softly, “Maybe we aren’t really related….”

“No!” Vincent snapped. “Why would you say that, Gil?” The thought physically _hurt_ , to consider that Gil would go so far as to deny their blood bond-

“We could be like anyone,” he whispered, “right?” He hesitated. “If you don’t remember anything and I don’t either… sitting here like this wouldn’t feel… awkward, I suppose? I mean, if we just happened to be two people who… who…could just, well, um…”

Vincent turned and stared. What was Gilbert implying?

“Just what?”

“Do this.” Gilbert pressed his lips against his own.

Impossible!

The absurdity of everything made Vincent wanted to laugh. A snort came from him and Gil made a tiny squawk, breaking the kiss.

“S-sorry,” he said, eyes darting away. Crimson painted his entire face, and he shifted his seat a good foot away from Vincent. He bent at the waist, shaking his head while running both hands through his hair, the perfect image of failure. “I didn't know what I was doing, I-I can't....”

Suddenly, it dawned on Vincent exactly what Gilbert doing. Trying to weedle Vincent for information. But what a poor Don Juan the man made! Gilbert even spent most of this conversation _trying to convince himself_ of his desire! A satisfied bitterness coated Vincent's understanding of this whole fiasco. In fact, the situation was so crystal clear, he wanted to sob.

“I don't want to see you upset,” he said quietly. “You're confused, brother. This week must've been very stressful. You should leave and let me take my nap.”

“I'm sorry,” Gilbert repeated. “You must think I'm an idiot.”

“You only care about me,” Vincent said, feeling the stabbing lie of it pierce his heart. “You got carried away. But don't worry. I'm not offended.”

“I can't believe I did that.” Gilbert faced him, ashamed. _Here it is,_ Vincent thought, _because Gilbert is so good and so noble, he is prepared to grovel to make up for his mistake. He is too much of the light to ever want to have anything to do with me._

“I thought you wanted me to.”

_What?_

“ _What?_ ” Vincent voiced aloud.

Gilbert nearly stumbled off the chaise-lounge in mortification. “I thought that maybe... maybe we can... I'm an idiot,” he blubbered again.

“Gilbert-” Vincent grasped the raven-haired man's hands in his, brought him back to the couch. The dread evaporated in an instant and Vincent had to control the spinning of his thoughts, taking in this unexpected truth.

“Gil wants to kiss me?”

“Of course I do! But you're right, I'm overemotional; I was thinking of the Head Hunter hurting you and gods, I only wanted to kiss you just once before it was too late; this is sick; you think this is sick; I'm sick–”

“It's not.”

The two locked gazes and Vincent watched as his brother's golden eyes widened. He ran a tongue across his lips. Tenderly, Gilbert pressed those lips to Vincent's cheek. And then again a few inches lower, and then lower still, leaving a trail of slow, feather-like touches against Vincent's heated skin.

What if this was only another trick on Gil's part? Trying to convince Vince of the veracity of his feelings?

 _Don’t think of the Vessalius wench_ , Vincent told himself as Gilbert worked his tongue along the hollow of his throat.

But a vision of the blushing blond woman reclining on this very same chaise-lounge appeared as his threw his own head back upon the cushions. Her voice, a strange parallel to his, gasping....

No! Vincent could not, must not, _will_ not – identify with Ada Vessalius. He won't reduce himself to acting like a simple-minded _woman_.

He judged Gilbert's every move was a weaker, inexperienced version of the things Vincent had done to others. Yet despite the clumsiness, Vincent found himself falling in line. He wanted so badly to believe in Gilbert's love, in his older sibling wanting _him_ and this was not a game.

“You feel so warm,” murmured Gil in amazement, fingers slipping beneath the collar of Vincent's coat to stroke his collarbone. Vincent visibly shuddered. “Why is that?”

“Because of you, Gil.”  
  
A crease of worry fleeting across the other's brow. “Don't call me that.”

What if Gil want to pretend they were strangers in the night, two different people entirely…He wanted Gilbert because he was _Gilbert_ , because he was his _brother_ , not because he entertained some fantasy where he loved a man who happened to _resemble_ his brother.

In reaction to Vince's expression, Gil backtracked: “I didn't mean I that way, I-” He took Vincent by the shoulders in a desperate hug that felt more like a clamp than an embrace.

“No, stop!” Vincent snapped. Two sides warred inside him, until he was almost beside himself in disbelief. He had to protect his brother from the knowing the truth, for knowing himself, and in order to do so, Vincent had to stand firm, he had to resist, he had… to… “I want Gil to think of me. Only me.”

Vincent froze, paralyzed by the sudden outburst. _This was so unlike me,_ he thought letting a sudden detachment flow through him, _I never get this emotional._

“I-I do,” his brother stumbled. “I am.”

 _Show me your horrible lies_ , Vincent demanded silently.

“After you questioned whether we're family?”

Gilbert's flustered face was a mirror to Vincent's own. “H-how can it be right to think of you like this otherwise.. and it doesn't hurt if we don't remember anything anyway.…”

“Remember?” Vincent chuckled scornfully. “So Gil's happier if we don't remember after all? Gil can touch me as long as we don't think we have our blood-bond? Is that what he wants?”

“No. But, I... well...” Gilbert paused and he slouched, as if weighing a heavy decision. “I remember Jack,” he finally said. “From before. When I was a child.”

Vincent blinked. He untangled their limbs and shifted to the far side of the chaise-lounge, yawning. “You're making me tired, brother. We can speak more later.”

Gilbert grabbed his arm and turned Vincent to face him. An urgency lit his features and Vincent noticed those golden eyes taking on a darker sheen.

“Don't try to weasel out of this!” he demanded. Gilbert's rarely this rough with him that didn't have to do with a lecture. There was a hunger in his voice and Vincent paid renewed attention, eyelids lowered.

“I met a fragment of his memory in the ruins of Sablier, and I think... I think I was his servant. You were there too.” Gilbert retained Vincent's gaze, as if he could measure the truth in his face. But Gilbert was never that talented.

Vincent's capped his laughter at the confession. Foolish brother.... but maybe if he did serve Jack, this would never have happened. Maybe without Vincent, Gil would've grown up to be an ordinary human being, or a Baskerville. One of the good ones, anyway. He'd always remain in the sunshine...

“I only remember you.”

Gilbert cupped his face between his palms and Vincent thought he’d burn from that gentle touch.

“What about me? About us?” His right thumb stroked across the bottom of Vincent’s lip. In an attempt to avoid answering, Vincent’s flicked his tongue out to taste the lambskin leather of Gilbert’s gloved thumb and he took the digit into his mouth, sucking eagerly while clasping Gil’s hand to his face so his brother wouldn’t recoil.

He didn’t. Instead, Vince found himself easing onto the plush cushions of the chaise lounge as Gilbert bent over him. Sudden panic entered ( _no, that wasn’t supposed to happen!_ ), and Vincent moved away, letting his lips and his hands retract their hungry gestures. His gloved palm pressed against Gil’s chest in silent protest. Gilbert grabbed his raised wrist, stopping him and took his other wrist in his hold.

Vincent felt tightening heat below. Looking at his brother’s seriousness, his breath hitched as Gilbert stretched his arms above his head to pin them onto the cushioned end of the chaise-lounge. Gilbert straddled him, his crotch resting on the rise seen through Vincent's clothing.

“Are you afraid?” the dark-haired man asked, glancing downwards, concerned. Gil's grip loosened slightly and Vincent knew he could simply slip away; Gil would free him completely and then he can laugh this off again, dismiss his silly, pathetic attempts at seduction (yes, Vincent could not deny this now) and they can be done. Forget this occurred. Forget everything. As strong as this thought raced through Vincent, his forearms relaxed into his brother’s grasp.

_This can’t be happening... Maybe this is a dream, maybe the Dormouse is playing a cruel trick, maybe-_

Vincent shook his head wildly in response. “Please Gil,” he said, his own voice sounding strange and ragged in his ears. Why couldn’t he control this fluttering in his chest and the intensifying pressure in his groin? “I don’t know anything else.”

He gave a sad smile, interpreting Vincent’s reply as one out of fear than a desperate restraint against desire. “I’m afraid too,” Gil confessed, bowing his head. “That… that once all the memories resurface…” His brow furrowed and a shadow draped his features. “Nothing will be the same. That… it’ll be too much.”

Only his precious brother could pull off vulnerability at a time like this! Vincent almost burst into another fit of hysterics if he wasn't already bent over the edge of arousal.

Peculiar, Vincent realized, how differently both of them thought. While Gilbert cared about people, he pulled everything inwards, thinking them only in relation to himself, of his own feelings, of his own complicated situation – selfish and selfless. What a contradiction! It was Vincent who only thought of the other, not of himself in his plots. How would this person react? What could he do to control them, rein them in? _Use_ them? All for the goal of ridding his very existence, his worthless, pathetic life. Vincent knew he acted as the most selfless man in the world, even if no one else did.

Here was Gilbert, his introspective caring older brother, pinning him into the plush coverings, feeling the heat of Vincent’s desire throbbing against him, his face almost cruel in its unresponsiveness. Had he finally learned how to be clever?

Vincent didn’t feel himself giving in, as much as he wanted to. Because if Gil wasn’t thinking of how all of these actions meant, he wasn't giving Vincent something precious. Vincent knew his brother. He was sure Gilbert thought he was making Vincent happy while also getting what he needed, but it was always going to be Gilbert's needs first. Gilbert truly felt nothing for Vincent, even as they were in the middle of this seduction….

People assumed Vincent was the heedless one, the one who threw himself into situations. That’s only what Vincent wanted them to think, constructing an illusion of a spontaneous libertine. No, that wasn’t Vincent at all.

Perhaps that was why after so many years of yearning, when his wishes were finally coming true, all Vincent wanted to do was scamper away and hide.

“Gil’s playing in over his head,” Vincent whispered. “He could get hurt.”

_And me._

_Don’t hurt me._

If Gilbert was pulling some sort of trick … No, that would be too much. Vincent would simply _break_ with this lie. And yet-

“I won’t.”

_Because I’m only a twisted thing who doesn't deserve your love—_

“You’d never hurt me,” Gilbert whispered.

Vehemently, Vincent shook his head. “What about your master? Why-?”

“He has nothing to do with this, Vince.” Gilbert's breathed against his neck, the words secretive and low. Another attempt at sultriness? Or self-consciousness reining in his voice? “No, I mean, gods, I'm not the best at explaining...”

 _Do you think I'll fold over like a stupid twit with one good fuck?_ The blond shut his eyes and slowly gave in as he reopened them. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk any further,” Vincent suggested.

Gilbert gave a small chuckle. “Yeah. Perhaps.” He rolled his hips a little as he said so, and immediately, Vincent bucked in response. “Gil,” he gasped.

“Is that all you remember from before? Just my name?” Another thrust.

_“Gilbert.”_

Vincent was loud, extremely loud. Gil broke his hold on Vincent's wrists. Immediately, Vincent seized Gil’s jacket and pulled him in, pressing their mouths together so Vincent could stop his own voice from escaping.

But it did. “Brother, brother, brother,” he muttered as he felt all of the layers of his being collapse. He tugged off his gloves with his teeth before grabbing the back of Gilbert's head for another deep kiss. He bit down on that succulent flesh of Gilbert's lower lip, and Gilbert reciprocated, a low noise coming from his throat.

Gil’s hands roamed, unhooking the golden cord that displayed the Nightray seal and flinging Vincent's jacket wide to expose the long chemise he wore underneath. His fingers worked their way down the row of pearl buttons, brushing his fingertips along the exposed skin beneath. Vincent moaned and Gilbert slipped his tongue past his parted lips. Folds of silk pooled onto the velvet cushions as Vincent tugged off his shirt.

Vincent's erection grew and he rubbed fervently against Gilbert until his brother pushed him away, hard enough that his head bumped the padded rise of the chaise-lounge. He flailed, trying to latch onto anything to maintain some semblance of self-command, but as Gil flung off his jacket and pulled off his gloves, Vincent let his limbs grow slack – simply _slack_ – as he watched, mesmerized as Gilbert hurriedly removed his outer clothing and pushed up his shirtsleeves.

 _There’s no difference between me and Ada Vessalius,_ Vincent thought. Or those hens he took to bed. He was like these women, easily manipulated and quickly reduced to this blubbering, pathetic-

But this was _Gil_.

“What’s wrong-?”

Vincent realized that he had stiffened as Gilbert wrapped his arms around him, warm hands gripping his back. “If I remember Gilbert from before, does this mean we'd need to stop?” He had to find some way to control this situation. He couldn't be swept away. This was getting too dangerous.

Gilbert swallowed hard, confused himself by this situation. “I.... I don't know...” he admitted. “I want to feel closer to you. You act as if we'd been through something... and that you need me and somehow, I _earned_ it. And...” Gilbert sighed, and Vincent couldn't tell if the dip in his voice was from tenderness or from the draining energy it took to lie. “I want to find that place between us so I feel that I had.”

“Find it here.”

Off came their belts and Gilbert made quick work of undoing the front of Vincent's trousers. Vincent moved to do likewise for his brother, but Gilbert stopped him again. “Wait,” he said, taking a breath. “Let me.”

He undid his front and closed his eyes. Did his embarrassment remain? Vincent grabbed his brother's cock. Gilbert gasped, cursing, and took Vincent's arm. “Vin-?” A quiet moan and Gilbert exposed the smooth back of his neck as Vincent rubbed their throbbing lengths together.

Gilbert panted as his hips moved on top of Vincent. He was not a talker in situations like these, apparently; he mouthed his cries in silent appreciation. Vincent was, though, slipping in smooth words to mix in with the pleasure. Deep grunts. Hard grips. Eyes closed. Vincent undid the clasps of Gilbert's shirt, pulling the rough linen off. Reaching to kiss Gilbert's chest, to lap at his nipples, and Gilbert gasped (how endearingly innocent!). Gilbert placed his hand over Vincent's moving fist in a hot, mutual hold. Their pelvises moved in sync with each jerk they gave themselves and Gilbert lowered himself on top of Vincent for full-on contact of their upper bodies.

Vincent let go and placed his hands on the top of his trousers to pull them down his hipbones; much easier said than done with Gilbert on top. Soft velvet brushed his arse as his trousers were tugged down. “More,” Vincent moaned. “Inside me. I want to feel you move in me.”

Alarm crossed Gilbert's face. “Vincent, I can't-”

“Please,” he begged, clutching at his brother in search for relief. For closure. After all of years of deadness between them-

_I'm pathetic, pathetic, I'm yours, hold me, pathetic, wretched, terrible, Gil, please, more—_

“It'll hurt. There's, there's nothing-” Panic and desire in Gilbert's expression, and Vincent knew he never meant to go this far. Not tonight. Or maybe ever.

“Anything. Give me anything,” he said throatily.

“All right. Tell me what you want.”

“Taste you, Gil. Please.” Vincent grabbed Gil's rear and he shifted forward to sit on Vincent's chest, his cock throbbing before his face. The scent of Gil's musk filled his nose and Vincent kissed the very tip.

Gilbert clenched his eyes shut and grabbed Vincent's shoulders. “Ah...”

Vincent smiled, breathing shallowly as his brother's weight settled on top of him. He took hold of Gilbert's hips and slowly rubbed the cord of heat along his cheeks, watching the way Gilbert's eyelids fluttered in response. Another series of small kisses, the tip of his tongue nuzzling his uncircumcised folds of skin. Gilbert rocked, crying out, his grip making Vincent's shoulders ache. Vincent parted his lips and encompassed his brother's head.

His brother's deep taste and Gilbert's repressed cries elated him. Vincent let Gilbert enter his mouth slowly, working his lips down inch by inch, trying to simulate the most intimate of love-making they couldn't do. His brother bucked, his hair tossing back. “Oh... please... yes...”

The rocking increased and Vincent felt the pressure against his chest making it hard to breathe. The dizziness he welcomed, swirling his tongue around Gil's head, drawing his cock back out to nuzzle the slit, and mouth the tender hangings below his length, tasting bitter salt and sweat and enjoying everything that Gil denied.

_Use me, please use me, brother, make me yours..._

Vincent encompassed Gilbert's length again and this time, his brother began to move steadily, taking heedless pleasure in riding his face. Gilbert lifted himself off Vincent's chest as he thrust, and Vincent pressed both hands into that round flesh and pushed, making Gilbert plunge deeper. He fought off the tears and the reflex to gag, letting them slip as he kept moaning louder and louder...

...more and more and more and....

“Vincent, I'm... I'm...”

A grunt from Vincent. His hands scrambled and pulled down cloth; his fingers were clawing and stretching his brother from behind as Gilbert pounded into him; a finger from each hand reached down and penetrated into Gilbert's hidden depths—

Gilbert finally made an audible cry; a burst of hot, thickness flowed down Vincent's throat; he swallowed, wildly, gasping and choking and trying to breathe from his nose and—

A deep moan and words murmured that weren't Vincent's. Gilbert slumped, straddling Vincent, breathing heavily. He withdrew and Vincent coughed, once, twice, gulped, and gave a groan. The tears left a trail down the sides of his face and he felt their salt touch the corners of his mouth.  
  
Gilbert stared at Vincent then, the lust making his skin glow and those raven-eyes glint with predatory satisfaction. He stroked Vincent's neck and sighed. At this point, Vincent's own unattended erection was unbearable. He whined up at him like a small animal, and Gilbert shifted back until he rested across Vincent's thighs to behold his desire.

Wordlessly, he gripped Vincent in his palm and rubbed furiously. Vincent nodded feverishly, jerked up his hips, felt Gilbert's left hand snake between his legs, burrowing into the very core of him.

— _yes, yes, yes—_

* * *

 

Gilbert watched Vincent come in astonishment. Elation transformed his younger brother's face into beatific grace. Those eyes, cursed and mismatched, were bright with tears. Beautiful.... 

He was beautiful and Gilbert loved him. That fierce, savage love that came on the brink of lust as Gilbert watched as Vincent writhed beneath him and thought, _You are mine. I own you and you are mine._

Once that primal urgent thought past, Gilbert fluttered and landed into the hard, cold reality. He did something wrong. Not only taboo, this incestuous, unnatural embrace. But simply wrong.

Afterward, Vincent lay there, panting, as Gilbert rubbed the sticky whiteness between his fingers. Gently, he raised his hand to his mouth and licked the fluid off.

A murmur of protest. “Gil...”

“You had mine. It's only fair,” Gilbert said, cleaning himself and strangely enjoying the foreign taste. His free hand gripped Vincent's shoulder reassuringly. His little brother sighed and a soft smile crossed his face. Gilbert realized this was the first time in years he truly saw Vincent calm and not the false front he so often put up.

 _Oh gods, I didn‘t mean to make you do this_ , he wanted to say, yet simultaneously, resentment rose in Gil’s chest. How dare Vincent harbor such deep emotions – he had never remembered seeing his younger brother weep before (at least in this life, maybe his brother had been so much more sensitive as a child? Gil couldn’t recall…)

Gilbert should push him away. He should leave, without another word, before Vince got the wrong impression…

He leaned down and kissed Vincent deeply, tasting both their flavors. He was nothing but a beast and a selfish, horrible, manipulative human being. No wonder Vincent turned out this way. It ran in the family.

* * *

 

 The question came from Gil as they lay curled together on the too-narrow chaise-lounge.

 “What happened to us?” His warm breath deceptively reassuring against Vincent’s skin.

Vince smiled sadly in the shadows of the dim lamplight. “Awful things.”

“Will you let me know about them…. someday soon?”

 _You_ have _become clever after all_ , Vincent thought, relieved and dejected. Detachment seeped into his limbs. Despite feeling the sweat of his brother dripping against his skin, Vincent knew the gap between them only widened further than before.

“Someday,” he lied.

They dressed themselves quickly in silence, not looking at each other. Vincent didn't feel any sentimental urges, though Gilbert kissed the top of his head before moving toward the door. Vincent touched the spot on his crown and felt the irony that such a fraternal touch ended their amorous encounter.

Gilbert would've left without a word, if Vincent hadn't asked (and he couldn’t help it, he had to know): “Will big brother like another good talk soon?”

He rested one hand against the door frame.

“Maybe.”

Vincent watched the door shut smoothly. Minutes passed. He sat there on the chaise-lounge, immobile, processing the multiple meanings that simple word contained.

A cry escaped his lips. He grappled for his scissors, raised a heavy fist, and slammed the blades through the layers of velvet, cording, and feathers, stuffing so deeply that he hit the cushion’s springs. He left the scissors wedged in the chaise lounge’s curving headrest.

From the back of the room, a figure emerged from the bedroom. Of course, Vincent hadn't come to Pandora alone.

He tilted his head as Echo stepped into the light. He knew that his manservant would know better than to interrupt when he wanted alone time with his brother. He didn't even mind Echo overhearing; it wasn't as if that doll would tell anyone. He wondered what Noise had heard though, and whether Noise would want to take Vincent in order to sate that murderous jealousy. Noise's jealousy was a thing that Vincent tended to like a coal in a stove: blowing just enough from the billows to contain its heat, but always ready to ignite a roaring flame when needed. A necessary and simple weapon to master, since Noise was another dimwit in a female body.

He rose from the ruined seat. “Time for our bath, Echo,” he announced. “Take off your clothes and help me into the tub.”

Echo drew back as he approached. She anticipated something dark rolling off him, no matter how cheerful he sounded.

“Didn't you hear me?”

An arch eyebrow raised as his manservant shuddered, keeping her eyes to the ground as she hunched her shoulders. She whimpered as he pressed his left hand to her upper arm and curled his fingers tightly. Pathetic.

“You're pathetic,” he hissed, before the blow fell across her face.

* * *

 

Gilbert's hands shook as he shut the door behind him. He manged to get fifty feet away from those closed rooms before slumping down in the middle of the hallway.

_I did it for Oz, this was all for Oz, all for Oz..._

_Stop that!_ He chided himself. He knew better than to pin his actions upon another person, even if it was a person he deeply cared about.

“This wasn't for Oz's sake at all,” he said aloud. He rose to his feet and brushed off the invisible dirt from his clothes. “This was for me. This was my decision.”

A great weight lifted from his shoulders at the declaration. No guilt, no shame. Simply acceptance of his own flawed and foul nature.

Gilbert knew what kind of cruel man he had become over the years. What he was capable of. He murdered, he cheated, he lied. Yes, he played games with others in order to survive and he was wicked, as much as Oz thought he remained the same boy he once was. Well, he was that kind, sheepish child Oz knew from years ago too. But even back then, there was a darkness inside him, and today, a little bit more of that wretchedness seeped through into his soul and he had embraced it.

Killing people became easy. Killing souls – his brother’s soul and his own – turned out to be much less difficult for him than he thought.

_I’m such a simple man._

A rueful smile graced his lips.

_Only a simple man…._

 

Fin.

 


End file.
